


Pseudomonarchia Daemonum

by AliceWasAsleep



Category: Winner (Band)
Genre: Blasphemy, Blood Drinking, Cannibalism, Child Abuse, Corpse Desecration, Corruption, Dubious Consent, Fictional Religion & Theology, Gore, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Religious Fanaticism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:41:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29404245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceWasAsleep/pseuds/AliceWasAsleep
Summary: "It was a busy day at the church. Many prayers had to be done, people to give guidance. I was told to visit you tomorrow instead but... Why delay a call from a man who seeks for God?''et nunc, ante potens Dominus Stygal ego erit aperta cor meum ad gratiam suam et ipse lotus in eius verba ad pacem aeternam.Amen.
Relationships: Kang Seungyoon/Song Minho | Mino
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Please read the tags carefully as this fic contains many triggering contents! If you have and you are ready to read, I must remind you that the religion used in this fic is purely fictional! I do not intend to do blasphemy to any existing religion! Thank you!  
> The Sinner : KSY, The Priest : SMH

**Consequuntur : 1 - 9**

The religious men came when I was a child, nine or ten years old I couldn’t recall. They look like a circus play for the townsfolk who live without a God for who knows how long. We’re a town of prostitutes, lying merchants, and thieves who are so good at their job you’ll get pickpocketed once a week no matter how hard you try to be cautious. We have guards and knights—supposedly to keep things safe as is ruled by the king who lives in his safe high castle, but I don’t think I need to tell you if they are doing their jobs.

The judge is a corruptor, you might see it coming with the way his stomach bulges no matter how dry the season is. Prostitutes work all day, always ready to lift their skirts and an enclosed room is not always needed. Sexual entertainment is all some people have between their painful dirty life. A pack of divine believers wearing a uniform and a sigil on their chest looks sillier than a clown who fell off his one-wheeled bike here.

The religious men kindly asked to use the old abandoned church, the one with a broken dome as a roof and cracked wood as its floor. The townsfolk gave no care. If anything, the thieves were drooling in their sewers imagining the sum of goods they could scavenge from the priests. Some who seemed reluctant to give the building away were the jobless who always used the wreckage to sleep, lay around, or fuck a prostitute. But their voices mattered not.

I watched them from the small hole in my house’s wall. The religious men humbly bowed their heads to the townsfolk for their easy permission before walking further into the town. I took another good detailed look at the small sigil worn on their robes and wondered what it meant. The massive black horse that they guide made heavy step sounds as it walked past and it took my attention away. I almost drooled at the look of its physique. The muscles are thick and strong, I could see it moving in the coordination of its step. It’s much bigger than the cows kept by the judge. I wonder if the thieves would steal and cut the horse’s throat. Cook those fine meats with fire and eat it while half of its inside was still red. I was famished.

My brother whom I was taking care of grunted in his sleep at that moment. I shushed him and changed the cool cloth on his forehead. I knew he wouldn’t survive then, just like my other three. I already started to think about where I should dig in the backyard. When I looked back at the peeping hole, the pack was gone.

I suddenly remembered that small moment as I peeped through the cold mossy stone of this prison cell, with nothing to see other than some trees and the far stretched forest. Would there be any of those priests on my execution day? My mind suddenly suggested. Perhaps I could ask next time the guards come by and throw me those hard tasteless bread.

_“Only death shall serve justice for your crimes, you filthy insect!”_ The judge’s voice still echoed in my skull.

I liked that courtroom so much better than this prison cell. It’s not as cold and the wooden chair there felt better on my skin and bones. Probably because it’s barely used—as the law was usually just words on a signed paper in this town hence the courtroom was home to dust and unused goods. I liked how it was loud with people screaming at me for my sins and the room smelling rotten from the tomatoes they threw at my body. I liked that place. I liked it when the judge said everything I did, it felt liberating. Cleansing. Like a confession room, but instead of confessing to the gods I couldn’t bring myself to believe, I confessed to the men and women who stood and lived their lives unknowingly as I undertake my sins.

The courtroom was loud and smelled like rotten people and I loved it. Judgment was indeed a device to free us from all demise.

**Genesis : 1 - 7**

Mother had long, wavy black hair upon pale snowy skin and small eyes above her rosy cheeks. My sister said mother was pretty like the princess in her stories. I agreed, there were days where I’d look at her under a ray of sunshine and I noticed how gracious her features really were. She never wore pretty clothes like other women, combed her hair into perfection like other women... But she _was_ beautiful. Perhaps it was the love in us talking, I would not know for sure. And exactly like the princess in those stories, mother lived a tragic life.

The tavern owner called her the madwoman. The children called her the same thing in mockery, mimicking adults’ words without really knowing what it meant. Mother either spent the day walking around town yelling and mumbling to herself or sitting on her creaking weak chair by the window wordlessly. She would only shower when we—her children—managed to drag her to the tub and help wash her dirty body. All the while getting a hit here and there from her struggling. Some days we need to feed her food with all the patience a child could muster, other days she’d eat on her own just fine.

My eldest brother used to say that Mom wasn’t always like this. She used to be a happy, quiet, and kind woman. But his husband, eldest brother’s father, killed himself in the barn he used to work for when eldest brother was a kid. It was since then that Mother shifted slowly from who she was into the woman I knew of. She started to speak less and less sense, and people started to laugh at her once the empathy died down. Called her names, made fun of her. Some who tried their best sympathizing eventually couldn’t hold back their laughter after they saw her circling the market stark naked.

Knowing she was not in her right mind, men would come to the house and into Mother’s bedroom. Sometimes Mother would kick and hit them away, sometimes they would stay in there for hours long. My eldest brother didn’t understand what it was about when he was younger. He simply knows sometimes the men would give him some coins before they leave, never forgetting to remind my brother that ‘they haven’t been here’. The coins which then he used to buy bread for Mother. Growing older, he started to understand what it was and he had no choice but to let it happen. Again and again. Use the coin to keep on living because they had nothing else going.

That’s how my eldest brother got each and one of us. The townsfolk always frowned at Mother’s bulging pregnant belly but did nothing about it except say horrible things about her. Every wife would glare at their neighbor’s husband and accuse them to be the one—because of course their own husbands ‘wouldn’t have done such a thing’. Eldest brother could count with one hand how many of those houses actually have innocent men.

We often asked the eldest brother, would she ever get better? And he always assured us that she would. She would become just like any other mother who smiled and sang for their children. A mother who would make warm soups when it’s cold outside and cover her children in blankets as she feeds them. Mother would eventually look at us and say our names. Even though some of them were given by our eldest brother instead of mom herself. The only thing she needed was time to overcome her grief, he said.

Brother always said that... But I realized Mother would probably be the way she was forever—if not worse—the day we found our eldest brother hung himself in the barn. His body swinging under the same block of wood that his father used to tie the rope. I buried my brother in the backyard with the others and put a flower atop the cold wet soil.

**Consequuntur : 10 - 19**

The guard puts the metal tray with a hard tasteless bread and soup on it to the ground. Wordless, as always. I call for him and he wouldn’t answer, as always.

“Will there be a priest during my execution?” I ask anyway.

The guard doesn’t respond and simply leaves. I look at his back covered in light armor leaving the empty prisoner cell corridor and up the stairs. The candelabra on his hold brings the light away with each step, leaving my eyes once again having to see only with the help of the single torch outside my prison cell.

I look down at the bread, a small sickly mouse only inches away from stealing it. I shush the rat away and take the bread. The soup is barely warm but I have to make do, as it is only given every three days.

My execution is in three weeks.

I am not angry. Nor sad. The execution is just a fact, a common sense. Something that will surely come and there’s no reason to be upset. There’s calm in knowing for sure when and how your death will come. There’s peace in having answers to things in this world that are full or uncertain. In three weeks, I will stand in front of the townsfolk again. They might be sick to see my face for the last time but they are never sick to watch death so they will stand their ground as they wait for the blade to come down and chop off my head. It would be rather festive; it’s been a while since someone is killed on the streets and not by a criminal. A death that is agreed upon, a death where no one is at loss.

There used to be a story about this prison when I was a child. A bedtime story by one of my older sisters, she heard it from other kids. About the red prison, a prison where only the notorious sinner would be pushed in. The prison’s floor, walls, and ceiling are red in color, not because of paint but because of heat. The prison is infused with fire that is so hot, it would burn the inhabitant’s skin. It is a fitting punishment for them. Eldest brother said that would be a good reminder for us not to be bad children. My youngest sister couldn’t sleep the night she heard that story however, the poor thing.

I wish I could go to my youngest sister’s grave for the last time to tell her that no, the prison made for the most notorious sinner is not red in color. Nor is it hot. And she would never be there, and not to worry about a thing.

It is a cold, dirty place with moss all over and rats as a company. It’s not hurting your skin or your flesh with heat. It’s just a very quiet place. Your thoughts would be louder than the tavern at full moon nights. It’s not painful. It’s not that horrible.

But perhaps it is the most fitting for a sinner after all.

**Genesis : 8 - 15**

I buried my brothers and sisters in the backyard with heaving breath, I could never get used to the weight of gardening tools. It’s not like we had a lot of space, so I had to open up an old one, fighting my urge to puke at the sight of a bloated and half rotting brother with maggots in his gaping mouth—and threw in another one. I closed the grave and stood there for a few minutes with nothing in my head. There was nothing left to feel, I felt all the pain when they started to look sick and eventually convulse in pain as their lives met their ends. I stopped crying over anything since Eldest brother’s death and I was not sure if it’s good or bad. All I know is that when I cried, Mother would look upset and confused. So I tried my best to never cry again.

The sickness happened to everyone in town but it was hardly deadly. There was simply not enough food for my siblings to stay stronger than the sickness. Not enough at all, for 7 children and a mother whose money relied on the men who would pay a visit. I didn’t even know how I survived. There were many days I spent losing consciousness every few hours from starvation and small works at the town. I would look at my mother and wonder if she’s feeling sick too. I wonder if there would come a day where I’d have to bury her somewhere atop my rotting brothers and sisters.

One day a man came and looked at Mother with distaste. She hasn’t bathed for days, as none of us were strong enough to bathe her. He looked around and saw my remaining older sister. She screamed as he pulled on her arms but he slapped her quiet. I could only watch as my sister cried and shouted behind the doors. I was trembling. My youngest sister started to cry too in my embrace. Mother was just sitting at her creaking chair. Mumbling at the crescent moon in the sky. My older sister kept crying even after he’s done and left. She died a few days after that night and I kept wondering if I should have killed that man. My youngest sister followed after a few days. The bread I fed her from the coins we get from that man who hurt my sister had proven itself to be useless. Perhaps my youngest sister died not only from starvation but also from grief.

Somehow I survived. Only _I_ survived, with dirt from my sisters and brothers’ graveyards between my fingernails. Perhaps I wished I didn’t.

The mayor gave everyone food during that winter, for the first time ever. He said it came from the church. It was enough for my mother and me to breathe without feeling like a day was reduced with every take. It was such a warm and delicious soup. Best I’ve ever had in my life. I started crying after a few spoons. Why couldn’t my brothers and sisters survive to this day? We would’ve been alright with all this food. We would’ve still been together. I would learn to chop more woods to help my brothers. I promised I would. I wailed and sobbed as I grip on the spoon.

Suddenly Mother pushed a piece of meat against my lips. I stopped crying as I looked at her. She had that worried, concerned look even though she did not understand what was going on. The piece of meat was taken from a bread she was nibbling in the corner of the room. The bread from the church has warm meat in it.

“Eat.” She said, barely a whisper. I took the meat into my mouth and ate it. It was the best thing I have ever eaten. So this is what meat tasted like. So this was.... so this was it. I chewed it for the longest time. I savor every part of it. I told myself, oh how I would do anything to eat this everyday. How I would do _any_ work to afford such food. To stop eating moldy bread and people’s leftovers in the trash. To have strands of meat in my mouth everyday, chewed into soft parts and swallowed it whole.

What I said merely in my mind made its way to my life. As a man came in a cold winter night just a few days after, looking past me towards my mom but gave little care. He decided that mom was too dirty for him to bear, perhaps. So that night he didn’t ask for my mom. He asked for me.

**Consequuntur : 20 - 35**

My execution will happen in two weeks. The judge came upon my prison cell wearing his bear fur robe, pulled out his book and little feather pen.

“And the King’s law hereby stated that a convicted man with a guillotine above his neck shall have one last wish granted to honor his life. The wish will not be done if it is impossible to achieve, or anything that may pardon his punishments.” The judge said, gazing at me with false neutrality. His pen waits expectantly at my answer.

I look at the pen’s beautiful white feathers and wonder for a second if the poor animal is still alive. Do they kill them before they tear apart the feathers? Or do they pluck it out one by one as the animal squirm and scream out of its lungs?

“I’d like to see a priest,” I mumble.

The judge couldn’t hear me well. I repeat. He laughed and it echoes through the empty and spacious prison. He looks at me in disbelief and mock.

“What do you need them for? To repent? To confess your sins? Boy, the whole town and the king have known about you and your deeds! there is no need to confess to the holy men!”

“But it is allowed, is it not?”

The judge stops laughing and simply looks at me with his condescending eyes. He lowers his face to me, who is sitting on the prison cell’s floor and says in a quiet voice;

“You little dirty demon. You are a sick bastard, if I have it my way you wouldn’t be so idly sitting in that damn prison cell. You’d be hanging in that church bell, tied and whipped every single day to my heart’s content until you die. And by then, I wouldn’t bury you. I will let your body rot and let the smell engulf me as it won’t be sickening—no no it wouldn’t. It would please me to my core that I know you are rotting with maggots and flies on that disgusting mouth of yours—“

“And yet...” I mumble, “You did not. You followed the king’s law and put me in a prison cell. Patiently waiting for the guillotine to take me. How so?”

He bangs the metal bars with his thick book and the sound rings through every mossy stone.

“Do not talk back you filthy demon!!”

“A demon. Me? Is that what you all nickname me now?”

“It is not just a name, it is your true self!!”

“Might be. Might be not. You townspeople have a thing for nicknames. Just like how you used to call my Mother—“

“Silence!!!”

**Genesis : 16 - 33**

I remembered how painful it was even the day after. I kept crying and called for mom but she wouldn’t come. My throat became so hoarse and I felt feverish. Am I gonna die just like my sister? Would mom dig the graves and throw me into it too? Or would she leave my rotting body alone on this bed because she couldn’t understand death?

It scared me so much from the start, how Mother didn’t show grief. She didn’t show anything when eldest brother died. She went about her day like nothing was wrong, meanwhile her children felt like the moon just fell and broke into pieces right in front of us. She acted the same as the others, one by one her children would die and she would say nothing. Would my death mean _nothing_ to anyone too? Would I just be a fleeting, strange face in my mom’s peculiar mind? And to the townspeople, just a poor mad woman’s son who died in starvation and poverty? Would anyone even remember my name?

As I felt myself getting sucked by the darkness, something came tingling in my ears. A song. A singing voice. Mother? I crawled from the bed, groaning with every pain that strikes upon every movement. I sobbed and called for mother a few times. I noticed the smell first... the sweet, savory smell of warm food. I cracked the door open and the sound of her singing got clearer. There she was. Sitting by the table, stirring her spoon to a bowl filled with something warm that created a white steam fly about her face. It’s another food basket from the church, it seemed. I didn't hear them coming.

“Mother,” I called out with a hoarse voice. And I don’t know what was different that time, but she stopped singing. Her eyes glanced at me who was crawling on the floor towards her direction. I shivered. She looked at me. She really _looked_ at me.

“M—mother—“ I sobbed. I reached out my hand. I made pleads in my head. Wishes.

Mother slowly rose from her chair. My head followed her towering over me even until my neck hurt. She took the bowl of soup and slowly walked towards me.

“Mother—help me, it—it hurts—“

She slowly sat in front of me and the pain I felt throughout my body slowly became numb. She’s looking at me. Looking at me. Listening to me. She looked at me and I cried. She shushed my wailing and stroked my head. She’s here. My mother was here, I told myself. She stroked my hair and I sobbed. She has never touched me before. Never. Eldest brother fed me with goat’s milk he stole from the neighboring village’s farm because mother could never take care of us. She never touched me.

“Why did you do that?” she asked. I looked up at her, tears and snot all over my bewildered face.

“Why did you take him away from me?” she asked again, in a whisper this time.

“Mother? What do you—“

She was fast when she threw the hot soup along with the bowl at my face. I screamed at the burn. She screamed along. She moved away from me and started wailing. Rambling about her lover. Her lover who loved her no more. What lover? The man who assaulted me? It hurt me more than the bruises and cuts he left, to think that my mother in her mad mind would call him her lover.

“He loves you now... he loves you now!” She sobbed. My hands trembled, hovering around my face that felt like it’s still burning. I screamed and I screamed at the pain. Mother stopped screaming at one point and suddenly left the house. I waited for the burn to subside with a heaving breath. I kept my eyes on the ground where the soup pooled inside a small hole in the wooden floor made by a nail. It hurt. Everything.

I looked around the house after a while. Realizing how it’s so quiet now. I was alone. Not a mother nor siblings around. I was truly alone. The recurring thoughts of burying myself along with my siblings resurfaced at that point. Would it strip away the pain then? Would it help me at all? Or would I stay awake and alive in there until the maggots finished eating my eyes?

I looked at the mess that the soup made. Cuts of potatoes and meats all around. I took the meat without much thought and remembered being so hungry just a while ago. If it were any other moment I’d devour this soup with all the happiness my body could contain. If my siblings were still here we’d carefully split the soup to make sure everyone gets as much. We’d eat with munching noises so loud in the room, the neighbor’s dog would be curious. We’d sleep with bliss that night, perhaps finally dreaming about something instead of waking up in the middle of it because our stomach felt pains from hunger. We’d wake up the next day feeling a bit stronger and we’d do more jobs than we usually do because we just ate well. We’d be happier.

I missed my siblings.

I put the still-warm meat in my mouth and bite into the soft chunk. It’s unreal. How did the noblemen feel to be able to eat such a thing everyday? How did it feel to be full at all times? How did it feel to bite into something with such flavor, such tenderness... and feel it being shredded into pieces in your mouth? I sobbed as I tried to swallow the now mushed meat. I took another piece from the ground and tossed it into my mouth. I took another one near my elbow and did the same.

I wanted to live. I _wanted_ to live.

**Consequuntur : 36 - 83**

I am dreaming about tender red meat being cooked on a fire. Perhaps I was especially hungry that day. The cold days are inching itself closer, I’ll have to sleep with my knees inching closer to my chest too. I wonder if there would be snow the day they kill me. I am only half awake when I notice a shadow on the stone wall, cast by the lone torch outside of my prison cell. Of a man, looking nothing sort of like the guard. He is slightly smaller. No silhouette of an iron helmet nor iron breastplate. I slowly rise from the wooden bed, unforgiving to my bones, and turn my head.

The man sits under the torch, reading a book on his hand. His eyes are tender. Unfitting of the dark dirty place where only sinners, roaches, and sick rats live. His black hair slicked back, and his robe a smooth black leather. The small sigil resides on the coat above his left chest. The church.

“Are you the priest?”

He looks up from his book and towards me. Deep, beautiful eyes. He smiles with a curve of lips that brightens the room and closes his book.

“One of many.” He answers.

I crook my neck to feel the bones pop and sigh.

“You look rather young.” He looks somewhere my age, at least.

“I am quite young. In fact, we look around the same age. Do you think we are born in the same season?” the priest asks in amusement.

“It would be a shame for you if we did.” I smile to myself.

“Of course not,” he chuckles, “Meeting someone that is born in the same season feels like meeting a family. A brother.”

What an awful lot of effort to be kind of him.

“Did not guess you would come at dark.” I turn my body properly to sit on the bedside and face him.

“Ah yes, pardon me. It was a busy day at the church. Many prayers had to be done, people to give guidance. I was told to visit you tomorrow instead but... Why delay a call from a man who seeks for God?'' His voice was a pleasure to listen to, quiet and gentle. When one is in tantrum or distress it is sure to make them calm and content. Perhaps such is the nature of the priests. People flock to the church in many states for a reason.

“You should have woken me,” I tell him.

“You were in such a peaceful sleep. And a peaceful sleep is one way to connect yourself with the Lord. I would not interrupt such an important reunion.” He stands up to drag the small chair he uses closer to my cell. He sits down and looks around the dirty space.

“Must be quite uncomfortable in there, is it?” he asks.

“I don’t reckon comfort is a way to punish sinners.”

“On the contrary, the church believes a prison should be a good place for sinners to contemplate their doings. Give them a chance to stop worrying about their basic needs, the things that often cause them to succumb into sin, and really think about the blessings God has and will grant them in the future. And such things may only happen in a proper place, don’t you think?”

I chuckle and smile to myself.

“I seem to have entertained you.” He says, looking a little bit surprised.

“You have. I really wonder how have you survived all these years with that kind of thought, growing your roots in such a rotten town. Say, how many times have the north sewer thieves raid your church?” I asked.

“Ah, those fellas?” the priest chuckles, “They tried quite a few times during the early days. Managed to take some things too. But it stopped after the first year. The north sewer is now working as it should be and the thieves are now mostly a loyal helper to the church. They are living well.”

“Are they now?”

“Yes! It is quite a pleasant change to the town, we believe. They are mostly strong knowledgeable men too, so to make them an active member of a growing society is very helpful.”

“And how many times have they raped your nuns in disguise of their cooperation?”

He could not answer me immediately, but when he does his voice is less excited and more gentle. “None of our sisters has been wronged.”

“Really? Are you sure about it? You don’t think at least one of them has had those thieves’ cock in their cunt, and are too scared to admit it because the church will abandon them?”

I wasn’t trying to taunt at first. But they are unbelievable, the church. They start from an abandoned old building, a house to adulterers who thought they are discreet enough between the growing wild grass, into a tall mighty building that accepts sinners and the poor. Into a big community that slowly swallows the town, turning it into no longer a cursed dirty town but a religious God worshipper site. They are impossible to begin with.

“We do not abandon.” He smiles.

“You do. You have to, that is the point of every mentioned God. Do his rules or fall into despair and sure punishment.”

The priest looks down at his book and slowly caresses the black leather encapsulating it’s cover with his thumb.

“But you know we don’t.” He simply mutters, “That is why you called for a priest, do you not?”

I grip the edge of the bed, where small parts of the wooden frame prickle my skin.

“What would you like from me and the church?” he asks, his hands now touching the metal prison bar. I wonder if he could feel the filth on it, the trails made by rats, molds, and rust on his skin. For a holy man with no stain on his body and his soul, would such filth make his skin crawl and fill his dreams tonight with dread?

“Tell me about your God.” I whisper.

“That I will.”

“Tell me everything.”

“I shall.”

“And if you could, before they drop the blade on my neck,”

I look at him and his brown eyes, wondering if I could pluck it out to see how he sees such a filthy sinner as me.

“Make me a believer.”

He smiles and reaches out his hand between the bars, his palm facing the sky. I stand up from my bed and make my steps closer to him. With every inch closer, I felt more and more filth in me. Must be how it feels to be so close to a holy man. The twitching black goo of my sin that seems to have a mind and soul of its own becomes so much more present in the glow of holy light. I touch his hand and I jump at the contact. The touch of human skin after so long... it tickles me.

I wish I wouldn’t corrupt such a holy man. A source of light.

“I will try my best to deliver you peace,” he said, the gentle warm smile never leaving his lips.

I nod. I want to believe him.

“Repeat after me, Yoon.” He whispers.

I nod.

_et nunc, ante potens Dominus Stygal ego erit aperta cor meum ad gratiam suam et ipse lotus in eius verba ad pacem aeternam._

_Amen._

**Consequuntur : 84 - 117**

The priest brings me food. Mostly bread and fruits. Sometimes he would bring some on his own too and we’d eat together before his lecture. He’d also tell me about what is happening outside, how the weather and season has been. I tell him for a man on the brink of death, seasons shouldn’t matter much. He just smiles and tells me everyone should have the right to delve into the world’s ever-changing beauty.

One day he asks what an ideal God would be for me.

“A funny thing to ask, to a man with sin bigger than his existence.” is my reply.

“God does not exist only for the sinless. God is for everyone. For a baby seconds old, for a man whose bones are older than the oldest tree. For a man who spends his life worshipping and for those who heard his name only seconds before his heart stops beating.”

I ponder his question, staring at a certain stone in the wall with moss thicker than the other.

“One that knows everything.” I answer.

“I see.” he nods in understanding.

“Does your God know everything?”

“He does. He knows why things are the way it is and why it is not. He knows what will and will not be. He knows why a man does one thing and not the other.”

“So He know why I did what I did?”

“He most certainly does.”

“Then why did He let things be? How _could_ He let it happen?”

“God is not a puppeteer. And men are no puppet.”

“So I was indeed free to do as I wish? Then why is He a God if He has no control?”

“What He has is not control. Controlling is a sign of weakness and He is nothing such. God creates us, with every wrinkle and bumps, all on a grand foolproof design. The things we deem to be bad with our tiny human minds could not possibly touch even a flicker of his wisdom.”

“What does it mean?”

“When men judge each other and put them in prison cells, it is a law and value they create between and for men—oftentimes bathed in corruption and self need. But God has other ‘laws’ and we shall only know when we reach the end of our worldly path. What you deem to be a man’s sin in this world might not be one at all for the Lord.”

“Are you implying what I did might not be—“ I snort,chuckling in disbelief. “Do you even _know_ what I did?” I ask.

“That I do.”

“All of it? Are you sure?”

“Yes. Everything.”

“And... you’re still here?” My voice weakens. He takes a deep breath, sadness brushing his features at my question. I have fallen into a vulnerable state and he opens his heart to me. To this sinner.

“I will always be.” he says.

I keep my gaze at him but he does not waver. How could he not look at me in disgust like other people? How could he know what I did and not squirm at my sight like other people? Is this what God has bestowed upon him? A kindness and open heart that limits to infinity? I gulp my sadness away.

“Then what is written in your books? Are they not laws for men like any other bibles?” I point at the book that he always brings with much care, always carries it close to his heart.

“No, it is the law for a higher life.” He opens the books and shows me the first page. It has the sigil in the middle, only the sigil. “The Lord is a mighty being that simply wants us to follow his guidance. Some of it being; to always share what worldly materials we have, to embrace every single man and woman in his name, never to judge and guess other’s hearts, and offer our hands to those who fall in despair. See how greatness by His name is reached by helping each other instead of kneeling for Him? He wants us to serve each other hand in hand—the Lord does not need us to serve him! We are the ones who will eventually find the need to lower our heads and lie our hands to the ground to honor Him.” His eyes sparkle as he speaks. Like he is truly, deeply in love with his faith. I wonder what it would take for a man to be like that. A lifetime of reading and obeying?

“So there is no page that asks you to worship Him with certain gestures?” I ask.

“There is no such page. As I said, the lord does not need our body to praise and worship him.” He chuckles. He closes the book and offers it to me.

“It is in a language you might not understand, but you may keep it and try reading it. There have been stories of miracles where those who cannot read are blessed by Him and could recite every word like they are the book itself.”

“No, thank you. I see no point to it.”

He takes the book back and puts it on his lap with a knowing chuckle.

“He simply asks us to introduce his name while we do the right things that he taught. A true God does not need much for people to realize his greatness indeed.”

Right before he asks me to recite today’s words, he tells me I had a beautiful voice. Like a church singer, he says. I tell him I have never heard them singing, nor any other people with proper voices so I wouldn’t know. Art is a big privilege. He tells me that listening to my voice reciting the verses are better than such singers. I shrug his words off, thinking of it as a lie. He is just trying to lure me into his teachings, isn’t he?

_Potens dominus Stygal habet aurem eius sapientia in mea venas et erit protege me a falsis verbis Dei in aeternum._

**Consequuntur : 118 - 127**

It gets harder to live by the meals the prison ward gave me. I never minded before but perhaps because the priest keeps bringing me food these past days my tolerance to hunger became less. I sigh as I look at the empty tray of food I finished in a flash yesterday. Normally I’d still be alright but now I can feel that craving adding slowly to my appetite. I should calm myself.

The priest’s footsteps arrived moments later and I couldn’t hide my anticipation. He shows up with a smile and a warm greeting. As he always does. He becomes friendlier each day, it feels less like a last-minute of my life wish. It feels like a visit from a friend, almost. He offers me a glass of sweet drink, tells me about a fruit with a name I’ve never heard before. He talks about the pilgriming priests, how sometimes when they arrive they’d bring delicacies to share for the town and the church.

“Is it alright to share it with me?” I ask.

He looks at me like it is such a strange question.

“Of course it is!”

Last week I wouldn’t have dreamt to have someone talking to me about their day. Shared a loaf of bread with me and laughed at some things I said. Last week all I thought was only death. My sin, the weight of it all, suffocating me like poison gas. This prison cell where I kill my hopes one by one is suddenly less murderous ever since he’s here. A holy man. A good man. He lets me talk and listens to every word I say like I’m a book he is very curious to read.

This will end soon, I tell myself. Remind myself of the blade ready to end me in a few weeks. But it is hard to wallow in the sad thoughts. Not when he’s here, making everything just a little bit brighter. A holy man. His smooth skin never failed to make mine feel so coarse and unkempt. I often dread the time I will need to hold his hand and recite prayers. My sins and stain remind me of my place. However that feeling would all subside as he took my hand and held it tight. Keep my fingers warm against the unforgiving cold this walls cover me in. And his eyes... They are ever so gentle. Such a beauty, befitting to his kindness. I need to remind myself that I shall cease from laying my eyes on him longer than I should. A difficult thing to do, as days pass by.

I recite every word he wants me to carefully. I don’t realize I am trying my best until he tells me I recite it so well. They make me happy, his words.

_Domini benedictio implet me cum gaudio et quenches meam sitim. cum hoc, ego erit meminisse, nisi benedictione erit in aeternum mihi fertis splendor._

**Consequuntur : 128 - 152**

Hunger is clawing at my stomach, gripping at my throat. I’m so hungry, _so_ hungry. I pick at the moss on the ground wondering if I should put it in my mouth and decide if I could imagine it tasting like something else. My nails start to pick on the wooden bedframe, some of its pointy ends scratching at my fingerprint. I take a deep breath. But no matter how much air fills my lungs it wouldn’t stop the hunger reaching up. Higher up. In a bit, it should reach my head and corrupt my mind. I’m so _hungry._

“Hello.”

His voice startles me. I don’t hear his steps. My head shoots up and I immediately see the basket he brings. No... I cannot let him see me like this. But I’m hungry... I’m hungry...

“How are you feeling today? I brought you these berries. It’s really good, and the nuns picked them just this morning.”

I almost crawl with my hands and knees to him at the mention of food. I look at the basket while breathing through my mouth. I’m so hungry.

“Are you alright?” he asks, the worry in his voice somehow makes me hungrier. I want to pull his hand. Pull his unstained skin past this metal bars and—

“I’m hungry.” I grit my teeth. My hands tremble as they grip the bars. My bones would crack if I keep up the strength, losing against the unforgiving iron. I can’t hurt him. I won’t hurt him. Not him...

“I’m sorry I arrived a little late today.” He said in a knowing hurry, “They never feed you right, do they?”

He reaches my hands that are gripping the bars and I flinch. No no no. He needs to let go. Or I would—

“I will make things better for you. I promise.”

Soothed. What is that? It is just words. And a simple touch. I look up at him in a daze. He takes the small red berry into his hand and gently puts it against my lips. My mouth opens slowly as he slips it inside.

“Everything is alright. Eat, and you will feel better.” He whispers. He chants some prayers in that unknown language and I start chewing. The sweetest juice spurts out of the round berry and I sigh in content.

Hunger dissipates with every grind my teeth make. He feeds me another. And another one. Until all I could feel is content. Calm and full. Even when his fingers touch my lips as he feeds me... I feel alright. I am alright.

I lean my back to the metal bar as he teaches me about generosity. He keeps talking about giving. Giving. And keep giving. Never let yourself swim in belongings.

“Is that why you always give to me?” I ask without straying my eyes off the tiny window near the ceiling where a spider spreads its webs. We are separated by the metal bars that feel thinner each day. He sits on the dirty floor with me today, as he delivers his teachings. I wish we were not separated at all.

“Yes. I live by the Lord’s words. Always.” He says.

“Then what shall I do with the things you give me? I have no one here to give.”

“You have already given. To me. You have given me your ears and your minds. And it is a big thing to give to a man.”

I turned my head to look at him, his hazel eyes reflected the sunlight. Such a pure, holy man. What is he doing here, with a sinner? Is he not afraid I will stain him eventually? A small spot of black that will stay forever and perhaps spread everywhere, anywhere someone else can see.

“You are a good man.” He whispers. He reaches inside the metal bars and touches my face. No, he shouldn’t. He’ll get dirty. My sins will leave a mark on his delicate pure fingers. God will be angry at me for ruining such a devout creation. My heart felt the strangest grip at his contact. I yearn for more but I dare not speak it.

“I am not.” My voice hoarse as I answered.

“You are. I _know_ that you are. Soon you’ll see what I see.” He says as his finger glides down my cheek and my chin. I sigh at his touch. When it leaves my skin I almost follow. I crave him. I crave the light.

“Follow after me.” He says.

_Potens Dominus Stygal habet praeditos me oculis videre bona habeo intra me, magnitudo he replevit me cum eius potentia. et, ego laudabit nomen eius._

**Consequuntur : 153 - 165**

My execution is in a few days. but it does not bother me one bit. I am occupied with another despair, another pain.

_Hunger._

I’m so hungry I think I must be insane. I keep biting the flesh in my forearms, huffing and puffing as it slowly bleeds and blood starts to fill my mouth. I want to bite it off. I want to bite and grind my teeth on the wet flesh and tear it apart, feeling it destroy slowly in my mouth before I swallow it. Swallow it and feel it go down my throat and fill my stomach. Feel it devours slowly. Coursing through me, be a part of me.

Footsteps.

I all but jump off the floor and grip on the metal bars. I push my face against it wishing my eyes could pop out and see who’s coming.

_Him. Please. Him._

But the sound of the footsteps becomes clearer and I know it isn’t him. He doesn’t sound like that. I sob against the cold metal and groan at how painful my stomach felt. I’m so hungry. My stomach feels like it’s about to eat itself from the hunger.

“Where is he?” I sob.

Prison guard looks at me strangely.

“Who?”

“The priest,” I almost choke on my own words, “Where is he? It’s been days since he’s last here.”

The guard looks at me up and down, the bewilderment in his eyes unwavering.

“There has never been a visitation from the church.”

**Genesis : 34 - 50**

Surviving brought me much pain. The man who touched me that night was not the only one who would eventually come with a bag of coins regularly, I should’ve known. They found a solution to ease their disgusting desire without the fear of getting a mad woman pregnant. That and perhaps the way my mother had started to look too old and unkempt for them. I inherited some of her features and it seemed to be enough too. It was never not painful at first. But perhaps numbness sipped in deeper into me each time and their touches and stretches barely hurt after a while.

I carefully gathered the coins I have and spent it with much consideration just like my eldest brother would. Though for me it must be way easier because there were only two people in the house now. Mother was still the way she was, if not the rare outrage she would suddenly have at me, still with the same predicament.

“He loves _you_ now.”

My mother was a mad woman but I wondered if those men who touched her managed to actually pull out affection from her. It’s probably not them and what they did. It’s because they simply mimicked her late husband by being a man and touching her. It’s the only thing close enough to his husband and now with that gone... the supposed loneliness she felt came out as anger to me. A mistress, in her mind. I wondered what I was before this. Was I ever a son at all?

The touches of filthy old men and surviving as a lone child became a life. One that I admitted to have chosen. I could’ve killed myself at every passing second but I chose not to. I spent years of living as a breathing filthy meat sack for those men, and I still wanted to live. I didn’t know why either. The visitors became less and less as years passed by. At first I thought it was because I was an adult now and their sick tastes did not find me interesting anymore. But seeing some of my old visitors became devout church visitors instead... I started to pay more attention to that place.

I became an adult and I started to do more work in town. The town became kinder perhaps thanks to the church and its influence, yet again. But still some people would doubt my sanity, linking my mind to my mother’s. Some employers made senseless doubts whether I could be trusted with complicated works, another way of saying I should be paid less. I avoided the works offered by the church for whatever reasons I never had the time to mingle on. The others who hated me still were mostly women who deep inside knew their husband had been visiting my mother. They were wrong, but the hate stood true.

Mother would run around town screaming about whatever still. Had the thieves almost raped her naked self before I chased them off with a knife and dragged her home once. Though she had been disturbed less and less over the years. She still wouldn’t take baths unless I force bathed her. Wouldn’t eat on certain days even though I could provide better food by then. Mother was still Mother.

I realized yet again with a bitter heart that she would never _ever_ return to be the mother that eldest brother told us she was.

Mother fell ill one day and I remembered how cold the winter was when she couldn’t walk anymore. She kept groaning and whining about how it hurt. I asked her where it hurt and she kept saying everywhere. Everywhere hurt.

She groaned all day. Feeding her was such a chore, she wouldn’t let the food in and when it did she would spit it out. I found out about some herbs, saw the nun collecting them and the merchants calling it a healer’s item. I stole some from the church’s backyard and boiled it in water. I tried to feed her with it. Blew the hotness of a spoonful and gently put it against her lips but she wouldn’t open it. I asked her to please have some of it. Told her it’s a medicine, to make her feel better.

Then she suddenly whispered;

“They love you now,”

I threw the hot boiling water at her face and she screamed. She screamed and screamed. Louder and more frantic than she usually did. I quickly took the pillow from below her head and covered her face to muffle the sound she made. She was very loud. I didn’t want to hear her. I covered her face so tight and gave no care to the way her hands scratched at my whole arm.

I snapped out of my anger and let go. She took a deep heaving breath the moment I did. I looked away from her hot burned face. It would leave a mark, I told myself. Maybe I should steal some more herbs from the church tomorrow.

She started mumbling.

“They love you now. They love you now. They love you now. They love you now. They love you now. They love you now. They love you now. They love you now. They love you now. They love you now. They love you now. They love you now. They love you now. They love you now. They love you now.”

I left the house that night and slept in the barn where my eldest brother and his father hanged themselves.

**Consequuntur : 166 - 190**

I dream about red. Trickling and flowing so easily. I am so sure it is blood in my dream. But blood smells like iron and filth... why does this smell like flowers? It smells like a beautiful city women's perfume, one I saw visiting the town in her beautiful dress hiding her beautiful eyes under the beautiful hat.

I wake up. The first thing I see is the mossy stone wall of the prison I have been kept inside for a while now. The execution will be held today’s afternoon. Strangely, after three days of excruciating hunger, I do not feel it even for the slightest. I wonder for a split second if I am dead.

“Today,” a voice startles me. It’s so close. In fact, I could feel it coming from right behind me. I could suddenly feel the way the wooden bed slightly shifted. He’s behind me. Right behind me.

The priest.

“Is the day of your execution.”

My heart races, it has never been faster. This is a strange feeling, so foreign. Is this fear? I believe there must be a speck of it at least... But that's not all. Just like a cook’s food, it is not one flavor. It has a mix of so many things, different amounts, put in at different times and a different way to create a completely different result to what it was originally. I feel so many things.

“Who are you?” I whisper. Trembling is my voice and my hand, I feel as if I am a mere dust in front of something so much grander than I am.

I feel his hand touching my shoulder and I yelp. My body tremble uncontrollably. It’s too much. My mind, my body—they couldn’t handle it. This is not right... this is not right...

“You will understand not by my words... but my power.” He whispers as he pulls my shoulder, forcing me to lay on my back. It’s him. it’s him. should I scream? Would anyone help? Help? Help me from what? What is going on?

“Ssh... don’t cry. Don’t cry, pure soul.”

Red. His eyes are red—it is no longer the beautiful brown it used to be. No no no.... help me... somebody please—

His fingers very gently brush past the tears that flowed out of my eyes. My lips tremble at his warm touch.

“Hel—help. Please—“ I squeak.

“Yes. I _am_ trying to save you.” His voice feels different... But I know it is him still. Why?

“I d—dont’t want to die—no—“

“I know. I know..” he strokes my cheek as gently as he wipes my tears. I could feel the wetness in my cheek where he caresses it. The red orbs that start to make my sight hazy come closer. Closer to me. I am sure it will come and devour me whole. Remove me from what I am.

I feel his lips. Soft and warm. Why is he doing this? This is a sin. A god’s servant shouldn’t be like this. Why is he doing this?

He pulls away and continues stroking my cheeks.

“You are a marvelous creation. So perfect. I have looked for you everywhere.” He murmurs against my lips.

“I’m.... a sinner,” I breathe out, shaky and at loss. My mind feels like a blank slate with very little there for me to use and think over.

“You are not. Not for the Alighty God of death Stygal, you are not. You... are a messenger of words. _My_ words.” He smiles before kissing me deeper. I close my eyes in fear. My fists clenched on my sides because it’s wrong.

It’s wrong.

It’s wrong.

It’s wrong... is it not?

“Recite to me everything you have done, and I shall take you to my mercy.” He whispers.

**Genesis : 51 - 65**

She kept repeating it. Until her voice turned hoarse, until it sounded like what a sand would be able to utter. Almost inaudible but it still came out quite clear to my ears. Too clear, too loud for me to be able to hear myself thinking.

“They love you now.... They love you now.... They love you now... They love you now...”

She was getting weaker. Maybe she would pass tonight. Maybe not. She’s been at it for quite a few days. I stopped feeding her, giving her medicines too. I didn’t know why. Or maybe I did but I wished to be a good man, good enough not to say a horrible thing that I truly wished for. I watched her that night, not a blink of sleep. Her voice got weaker at some point and I thought I could no longer hear a thing.

I stood up from the chair and approached her. Her eyes seemed unfocused,her lips very pale, just slightly opened. I put a finger near her nostrils and felt air brushed against my skin. She’s still alive. I sat on the bed and slowly rested my head on her chest. The sound of her heartbeat there, a little bit weak and slow. I hummed to myself.

“I’ve always wondered,” I whispered “if there would come a day where I’d be able to do this. Rest my head against you and perhaps fall asleep in comfort. Feel your hands stroking my hair with affection. And you’d call my name. Finally after all these years. It’s not all of it but today at least I get to do this... Mother.”

I stayed that way for quite a few minutes. Closed my eyes and listened to her steady slow heartbeat. I thought to myself what if it stopped as I was listening. What if she suddenly jerked off her bed and threw up. Convulsing in her weakness. And the heartbeat stops. I wondered...

Her hands, her weak skinny hands very slowly raised from where it rests and to my shoulder. I watched the weak movement in silence and wonder.

She gripped me. Not even that tight, it was just a weak effort from her bones.

And she whispered, for the last time;

“They love you... now...”

I straightened my back slowly, and her frail grip fell. I reached up and kissed the wrinkly dry skin on her forehead, the burn marks still there. I stroked her hair that only started to have white streaks on it and smiled at her. For the last time, I told myself, I shall show you my love. The love that filled me just because of the fact that she was my mother. I stood up and left her bed. I took the whetstone from where I stored it near the pots, pans, and knives, and headed out to the backyard. I looked at the spots where I buried my siblings and smiled at them. I missed them. Always. I took the axe and sat on a chopped wood. I sharpened it until I could see the glint of it’s blade. I put the whetstone down when I was satisfied and head back inside.

It was fast.

It did not take much.

I chopped off her head with one swing and she convulsed for a little bit before stopping permanently. I sighed at the sight of blood spraying around from her headless neck. Her eyes were opened still.

That night I found out that human meat tasted slightly similar to a pig’s.

**Consequuntur : 191 - 208**

I am crying at the memory. Sobbing uncontrollably into his lap. I hold on his knees so tight... just like the rope on my brother’s neck. I tell him I’m a sinner. I’m a despicable being, what I did was monstrous and disgusting. But all the while... he holds my shaking hands so gently. Stroking his thumb on the back of my hand. My sight is blurry under my tears, my throat getting more and more painful the more I admit everything I have done. In detail, perfect retelling of a long red night as I sit on my knees in front of him who sits ever graciously on the wooden painful bed. It is a prison cell but it felt freeing. Not like the courtroom at all—like a confession room instead.

He strokes my hair and asks me to look at him. I dare not. I feel filthy... filthier than the rats with scabs all over its body, wandering around this prison like a king. But he touches my face and pulls me out of the filth. His hands.... They are holy and pure.... I feel them against my skin.

“You are sinless, child. I left you in this rotten town so you can stand between the filth of other men and come back to my embrace.” He tells me. His words feel freeing. But at the gates of freedom, I feel hesitance. Living with words of mortification painted on my skin ever since I was days old makes me hesitant. Am I really all that he promised me to be?

Is it not wrong?

“Am I not disgusting to you?” I ask.

“You are nothing of the sort.” He smiles, “Do not let the false gods lead you astray. Force you their unjust laws. I have given thee my words, tell me... do you not feel peace? Do you not feel my love for you?” he leans down and kisses my forehead. I twitch at the contact.

“Your mother... is a foul woman.” He whispers so closely to my ears.

I whimper at the mention of her. I would’ve cried and fallen into despair again if not for his strong hold of my face and his gentle voice leading me out of the darkness.

“What you have done, my dear, is a purification of her rotten self. She is no longer a mad, sinful and filthy woman, you have redeemed her soul and sent her to my hold. She is now happier than a human could ever manage to be.” He says, shushing my every sob and disbelief.

“But... Why am I sorrowful still? If I have truly done her right... then why does it hurt?”

He smiles at me and let go of my face. I feel empty without his touch. Hollow and once again alone.

“It is not painful. It is hunger.” He raises his hand and I see his fingernails growing right in front of my eyes, sharper than a blade at the end. Sharper than my axe.

“You are hungry of our mercy and grace. Come now,” with the sharp end of his now long nail, he slits the center of his lower lips downwards. Blood starts gushing out almost immediately.

Hungry.

_Hungry._ I am _so_ hungry.

I groan at the way my stomach twists and turns. Maddeningly asking for food.

Meat. _Meat._

“Remove your garments, precious one.” He orders.

**Genesis : 66 - 73**

I ate her flesh both raw and cooked. I found satisfaction in both. Her raw flesh, wet and warm with blood filled my whole mouth with the peculiar taste of iron. Her uncooked flesh is soft, easy to be grinded by my teeth. I chopped her forearm and started cutting the flesh away that night. marveled at how skin attached to the red oozing flesh. She was skinny but her flesh was there for me to slice apart. Enough to make me sigh in content with every cut through the seams. I had to sharpen my knives multiple times.

I cooked a pot of water and wondered what I should boil first. I looked at her whole figure, splayed lifeless on the red bed. I took a good look at her head and took it with me.

Eyes. Eyes tasted funny but I enjoyed it. Not much flesh on her face. Had a hard time cracking her skull to get her brain, but it was somewhat worth it. It looked marvelous as much as it tasted interesting. Her tongue tasted somewhat sweet, the brittles felt funny on my own.

I fell asleep on the floor, beside her body that I ripped apart here and there. It was a new feeling, waking up not hungry. Waking up with your stomach filled just right. I felt energized. Strong, for the first time in years. I looked at the mess I made. Mother’s shattered skull on the floor. I realized I need to bury the remains that I cannot eat.

Ah... and the rot. I need to cook her before she becomes inedible. Would I be able to finish her at all, I wondered to myself. I chuckled. Such a thought would’ve been unimaginable just days ago, to have so much food that I had to wonder if I’d be able to finish it.

I spent the day chopping the meats off her skeleton. Pondered for long if I’d eat her intestines too, all the while rubbing my fingers at the foreign feeling of her silky organs surface. It’s an interesting thing, a human’s insides. I decided to boil her organs too... Why would I waste it? Some parts smelled horrible but a bit of washing cleared it out, thankfully. Her heart looked gorgeous. I smiled as I remember listening to her last heart beats. This beautiful thing was alive. It was beating. How fascinating.

At night, I walked into the deep forest and made a fire. Just enough to cook her flesh dry, so I can preserve it longer. She was a skinny woman but she had a lot of things to eat. I returned from cooking her and I saw a dog. A black dog, just staring at me motionless. I wondered if it smelled the cooked meat. The bones. I wondered if I should throw a piece at it so it would not attack me. But it left the moment I thought of it.

I went back home and looked at all the mess that was left behind. I ate the boiled meats first with ease. Savor the taste with sigh and content. It’s warm and delicious. I finished my meal and cleaned the house, removed everything that was stained with blood and is unwashable. I would burn them in the fireplace little by little.

**Consequuntur : 209- 215**

“You were happy, at peace. Were you not?”

I feel his hands everywhere. I am so confused. This is wrong. Is it not? But how could something wrong feel so blissful? I ponder the question as I swallow the blood that gushed down from his lips right into my own mouth. It is sweeter than honey. It quenches my thirst like nothing else. I sob as the drip weakens—the only fountain of elixir that could elate my mind, inspirits my ever ticking time.

“You only started to feel guilt after they led you astray. Fill you with a false God’s law. Made you think it was a sin... humans, thinking they could point their fingers deciding which is a sin and which is not?” he chuckles. He kisses all across my face, his blood painting my skin red.

His voice changes. It sounds like more than one person talking... sounds like... like there are so many people talking through his mouth. His red eyes are making everything else red. I can’t see properly. He’s touching everywhere. Is this wrong? Is it? But if such is wrong why do I feel as though I am rescued? Held in arms stronger than life itself. To be finally in a place with no fault and mistakes. At absolution.

“In the eyes of the Lord you are... a pure, perfect adherent.”

Something slips into me and I yelp in pain. It hurts. I wanted to squirm away but I couldn’t. I feel so many hands holding me down. Caressing me everywhere. I want to look down, to see what’s happening to me but I couldn’t. His red eyes are making everything red. I couldn’t see anything else but him. His smile. There is only Him but I feel a million other souls around me. Perhaps it is the greatness of my Lord.

“Do you believe in _me_ yet my child?”

**Genesis : 74 - 80**

A child saw me digging my backyard. He saw a bone. He asked what it was. I simply told him it’s a bone. What animal bone, he asked again. I told him a kind one. He kept looking at me. I gestured to him to wait and I went into my house. I took a piece of meat and gave it to him. He looked at me with bright eyes. He asked if he could really eat it. I told him of course, with a smile. He bit into it with such vigor. With a mouthful, he told me that he’s only ever eaten meat once in his life, a small piece from the church’s bread. I asked him if it tasted good.

“It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten!” he said in glee.

I cried. He reminded me of my poor siblings. They lived in so much pain and difficulty, they never had the chance to have a proper meal their whole life. Some of them never could even imagine what a meat possibly tasted like. I stroked the little child’s head and told him if he ever found a friend who was as hungry as him, bring them to me. I shall give them some too. The boy nodded happily. I told him to keep it a secret from their parents though. Because it would be rather hard to explain.

Children whose bodies were mere skin and bones soon came to me in secrecy. I’d give them a piece everytime they came to visit. I’d stroke their little heads and tell them to eat well and hush. I was no king but I knew better to share what I had.

Because we must care for the children.

Because the difficult life they were living were all the result of our misdoings.

We must care and feed the children.

One of the children was caught eating by their parents and the townsfolk raided my house that night.

**Consequuntur : 216- 220**

I feel as though he raises me from the filth. I feel stretched, opened bare and ripped in places. I feel cleansed and raised. The many hands on my body and his guiding voice clears my clouded mind. The dirty prison floor feels no longer intoxicating my skin, seeping its filth inside. There, splayed on the floor as he is above me and all over, I feel cleansed. Guarded by the red light that he fills the air with. As the Godly presence makes its way onto me, to and from in a rhythmic phase that sent me into trance deeper each time. The many voices whisper God’s wisdom all at once—strangely I could consume it all. I could hear each and every word, despite its colliding nature, and let it root itself inside me. I feel cleansed.

I feel holy. I feel true, at last.

“Take me,” I whispers, “Take my rotting soul and free me of this chains,”

He smiles.

“You have always been free.” He murmurs, “And today you shall say your final prayers to Me.”

**Sacramentum : 1 - 17**

“Upon us, stands the treacherous criminal! He is the man who killed his own sickly mother and ate her flesh!” The judge reads out loud.

The crowd groans and grumbles in distaste.

“Not only that—this filthy man gave the cooked flesh to the young ones!! Lying and fooling our poor, innocent children!”

A woman cries. A man yells his profanities at the sinner who’s about to have his head chopped off his neck. The judge continues his prolonged speech about sins and laws. At that moment, the man holding the machete, ready to cut the rope that will eventually drop the guillotine upon the sinful man, could not stop the cold sweat all over his body. He is called the chain bringer.

The chain bringers are men whose job is to escort the death sentenced sinners, put them under the blade, and eventually commit the execution. He is the one who opens the prison door and steps inside to pull the sinner out as the man does not respond to his calls. The moment this chain bringer steps inside he feels something horribly wrong. He could not pinpoint where and what. But he knows something is very clearly wrong.

He gulps the worry away, not that it helps much, and pulls the sinner by his collar. The man calmly whispers an answer,

“I hear you.”

It is a calm voice, unbefitting to his upcoming fate. The sinner rises to his own two feet and offers his hand. The man puts chains on it, as he is supposed to. But the looming ominous thought could not leave his mind, if anything it festers ever stronger.

The sinner in chains walks up the prison stairs up to where the sun could touch his skin. He is very clean, the chain bringer notices. Too clean for a man they barely give water and proper clothes. He is cleansed. How could it be? The sinner keeps his head hung low.

The crowd throws rotten fruits and vegetables at the sinner. Promised him hell and more. The sinner never budges, he walks upon the stage of his last breath in ease and sure heart. With his head on the guillotine, everyone cheers. The judge comes with an arrogant look on his face. The chain bringer couldn’t ignore how the sinner starts mumbling.

It is a very soft mumbling, he shouldn’t even be able to hear it at all from where he stands. but his ear just manages to catch it. Soon, the voice of the judge and the crowd are swallowed by the sinner’s soft mumbling. Foreign words. Strange to the ear. He could not understand a word, yet he’s listening to every letter of it. The chain bringer starts to tremble. He feels weak. The machete in his hand wavers. He tries to grip it stronger but his bones could not manage. The chain bringer’s jaws start to stutter. He felt dizzy and weak. His machete falls to the ground and a woman who hears the clink of his blade turns her head.

Her screams stop the judge’s blabbering mouth. Everyone watches the chain bringer’s body fall helplessly to the ground before he starts convulsing, foam flowing out of his mouth. The knights hurry to his aid and drag him down from the stage. A woman screams at that,

“Hurry and kill the man!! His sin is cursing this town, God is angry at us all for keeping him alive!”

The judge looks at the sinner’s neck and anger flows in him. He steps down from his podium and took the fallen machete. He raises it, showing it to the crowd who cheers him on.

“And today, we shall off his head in the name of God!” he screams.

_“et ego deditionem anima mea ad eum”_

the sinner whispers with his last breath.

The blade cut through the rope and the guillotine fell down.

**Resurrectionis : 1 - 44**

“Mother, can I ask you something?” a young boy asks.

“What is it now?” His mother grumbles, not amused that her dear son is talking instead of jewelry in her chop the darn woods.

“Do you ever wonder about grandfather’s story?”

“You mean his mad rambling?” the mother laughs, “Now now, you are a big boy! Are you still getting nightmares from his old stories?”

“No! I do not have nightmares anymore.” The young boy retaliates.

“Well what then?”

The boy bites his lips, unsure of his own worries. “The town he’s talking about, does it exist?” the boy asks.

“Of course it does.” the mother sighs. The boy feels shiver up his spine at the unexpected answer.

“Then—then why does everyone say it’s a lie?? His story about the demons—“

“Demons??” The mother laughs, “Boy, you grandfather was a chain bringer of a town full of criminals. He used to cut off the rope that kills so many of them thieves and rapists. It is to no one’s surprise that he ends up going mad.”

The boy gulps at the mention of death. Such a young soul, in his mind death is a horrible thing better left unmentioned. Ever.

“As for the town? After your grandfather arrived here, causing a ruckus with his mad ramblings about a demon who killed everyone during a sinner’s execution, the king and his knights came to that town. Did you know what they see? A dry land. The earth could not grow a thing, not even a wild grass!”

“So... the people there?”

“They probably left, of course! There was nothing for them to live off!”

“Then why does nobody know? It’s like they disappear with the wind!”

“If a person claimed he came from the most rotten town in the kingdom, you think a town would let them in?” The mother looked at her son with annoyance, disbelief at his son’s dense thinking.

“Well... I suppose not...”

“Then there you have it! The flock of thieves left their dead town and invaded other cities! That thief, Gerin might be a descendant from that place for all we know.” The mother grumbles at the thought of a notorious thief, currently living his days away at the prison cell. She hates him so much, as the man stole her beloved jewelry, passed on from her mother, and sold it to a foreign merchant before he was captured. The jewelry forever lost.

The boy is then scolded, forced to finish his task of chopping the woods before his father gets home. He swings the heavy axe reluctantly. Finishing his job for the day, he goes inside to find his grandfather grunting in his bed. He approaches the poor man and pulls the leather blanket on his stomach up to his chest. Winter is coming closer.

“Would you like some water, grandfather?” the boy asks. The man nods weakly. The boy skips to get a small cup and fills it with clean water. He feeds it to him with care. He loves his grandfather, despite his weak and frail body that needs constant assistance.

The boy notices his grandfather mumbling still. It’s probably the same story as always, he knows. But the boy leans closer nonetheless.

“.... they dragged me away but I could still hear the sinner’s mumbling.... he’s saying promises and prayers to the demon lord.... the guillotine fell and the head was off the sinner’s neck... but the demon lord came and slayed everyone else.... he slayed them all.... all I could see was blood, spraying like rain.... everyone’s head off their necks.... the demon lord took the sinner’s head and put it back to his body.... the sinner breathed.... he choked and gagged but he breathed.... the demons of the church all came flying out with their raven wings ... laughing... praying to the demon lord as the bloody rain paint them all red.... the demon lord carried the sinner close to his chest.... it was a ceremony.... as they feast on all the dead’s flesh... the sinner.... the sinner.... the sinner is a demon now.... he is a demon now.... he is—“

The grandfather coughs up blood, it sprays out to the boy’s face and ears. The boy screams and falls back. He cries as he sees his grandfather convulses in his bed. His eyes rolling to the back of his head. He screams for his mother. He screams so loud. His mother comes inside and cries, seeing her poor father dying, she quickly comes to his side.

The boy runs outside, cleans the blood of his face in urgency. It smells like iron. He hates the smell so much. He keeps scrubbing and scrubbing but the smell seems to linger. He scrubs harder. Until it feels hot and burning on his face.

“There is no need for such force.” A tender voice says. The boy gasps and looks up.

A nun in a long black robe. A red sigil on her left chest. A basket on her right hand.

“Who just passed?” The nun with a gentle, beautiful face asked. The boy answers but he feels like the words are slowly pulled out of his tongue against his will.

“My grandfather.”

“Ah... no wonder you are in such grief..” the nun says. She keeps her eyes at the young child under her before squatting down slowly.

“He was a good man.” the nun says as she smiles. Her eyes and her voice calmed the young boy, he no longer felt the disgust and fear of blood and the upcoming death he just witnessed.

“Who are you?” the boy asks.

“I am just a nun.”

“For which God?”

“For the only God.”

“Can your God bring my grandfather back?” the poor little boy starts to sob. The nun reaches out and strokes his head gently.

“Death is nothing to regret. Grandfather is in a good place now, little boy.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.” the nun nodded and smiled wide, “Stop crying, now. No tears are needed to be shed. Look here,”

The boy follows the nun’s hand, reaching out to the basket she holds. She takes out a piece of warm, still fuming bread.

“Eat this, and you shall feel better.”

The boy has never smelled such a flavorful food, he is about to shove it haphazardly into his mouth when the nun stops him.

“Now, don’t forget to pray before you eat.” she chuckles, “Follow my words.”

_Ego gratias ago omnipotens Dominus stygal eius benedictionibus_

The church will soon be rebuilt, the townsfolk not realizing the small soundless changes that are made overnight. They will not realize the embrace ignited around their necks and the bloods filling their belly in secrecy. They will overlook the promise prayers between the church’s kindness and prosper, they will slowly walk inside the church where everything is never as it seems. They will feel peace and tranquility at the priest’s words, they will open their heart to the grand force that is blessing them all.

If one were to wake up from their poisoned dreaming, they would’ve seen the blood that fills their well and the black rotting field that they plow in vain. The maddening sound of demons’ laughter from the church door will keep one awake all night. Peek inside the windows and you shall see the demons with their legs entwined to each other in filth and sinful moan. They would stain the church chairs and tables with the oozing fluid from their groins. The smell of blood would fill your nose and corrupt your mind when you see cuts of human bodies spread around their dining hall as dry leaves in autumn do. Eyeballs would be stepped on, its liquid gushing out for the rats to lick and get drunk on. Blood would paint the church red, just like the demon’s glowing eyes and it would never fade. The witches in their cages will be singing their songs, hitting their heads against the metal lock because the demon king’s presence excites them and the blood dripping down their jaws pleases Him.

The Lord, the almighty Stygal, the Bringer of Death shall be on his throne. Ever untouchable by others who are too weak even to lay their eyes on Him. His red pupils will cause men to fall on their knees and mumble his name in their loss of sight. His voice will drive you insane, thrusting into your ears like a blade and cracking your skull. Unless you are his Precious One. You shall see the Precious One sitting on his lap, no leather covering his skin as he latches his arms to the demon Lord’s neck. The scar on his neck bleeds still, it will always bleed out. It is a reminder of his feat that charmed the demon Lord so that he was taken as his swain. Orphans that the demon Lord had taken with him would bring cups of warm blood to his side, the rotting liquor would grace his lips before he fed it to the Precious One.

“Drink, dearest.” He shall say, “Enliven the voice you use to whisper your prayers.”

The Precious One shall finish the thick red liquor and continue his eternal prayer, an endless love poem to the demon Lord as they venture on the world. Gracing the earth with their corrupting steps, luring men in their wake and take them down under where God could not reach them anymore.

Thus is the way of the world, the truest grace and greatness of the Lord that shall reach us all in time and rescue us from the unjust world the false God has created. In the name of Stygal, the Bringer of Death, amen.


	2. Trivia

Hi hello tis me!!!

This chapter will talk about some things in the fic that needs direct explanation. Might be boring if you’re not into it or you dont really want to know what the prayers meant etc so don’t worry you can just skip if you want lol. This is made especially the prayer words because it is written in web translated Latin so if you happen to speak fluent Latin it might sound like rubbish to you (very sorry abt that). Without further ado~

** The title : **

Pseudomonarchia Daemonum or The False Monarchy of Demons is a book by Johann Weyer that contains a list of demons, and the appropriate hours and rituals to conjure them.

** The chapter partings : **

  * **Genesis :** the beginning
  * **Consequuntur** : the result/consequences
  * **Sacramentum :** the sacrament, pact
  * **Ressurectionis :** ressurection



** Prayers translation : **

**When they meet for the first time and Yoon asked Mino to make him a believer before he gets executed:**

_et nunc, ante potens Dominus Stygal ego erit aperta cor meum ad gratiam suam et ipse lotus in eius verba ad pacem aeternam._ _Amen._

and now, in front of the mighty Lord Stygal I shall open my heart to his grace and bathe myself in his words for eternal peace. Amen.

**The second written prayer (they pray a new one everyday and it’s not all written) when Mino taught him some teachings and he said Yoon lowkey aint a sinner in Stygal’s eyes :**

_Potens dominus Stygal habet aurem eius sapientia in mea venas et erit protege me a falsis verbis Dei in aeternum.._

The mighty lord Stygal has whispered his wisdom into my veins and it shall protect me from the false God's words in eternity.

**The third written prayer, after talking about the food (is it really food tho? :) ) that Mino brings for him, slow build of friendship and.... well, something a bit more :**

_Domini benedictio implet me cum gaudio et quenches meam sitim. cum hoc, ego erit meminisse, nisi benedictione erit in aeternum mihi fertis splendor._

The Lord's blessing fills me with joy and quenches my thirst. with this, I shall remember that only his blessing will ever bring me splendor.

**After Mino fed him “berries” lmao :**

_Potens Dominus Stygal habet praeditos me oculis videre bona habeo intra me, magnitudo he replevit me cum eius potentia. et, ego laudabit nomen eius._

The mighty Lord Stygal has gifted me eyes to see the blessings I have from within me, the greatness he has filled me with his power. and for that, I shall praise his name.

**Right before Yoon’s head gets chopped off :**

_“et ego deditionem anima mea ad eum”_

and I surrender my soul to him

**The little kid’s prayer before he eats the “bread” :**

_Ego gratias ago omnipotens Dominus Stygal eius benedictionibus_

I thank the Almighty Lord Stygal for his blessings

And that’s it! Thank you for reading this fic, I had a lot of fun writing it hehe. Interpretation of this fic is free for my readers to indulge in! Though you are always welcomed to contact me about it, highly appreciated actually uwu

Happy Valentine’s Day everyone mwah <3

*will update Eumoirous ASAP!*

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my beta lord ivy mwa ily queen yassss <333
> 
> Trivia (mostly Latin translates lmao) about this fic is on the next chapter!


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